


Ablative

by BryonNightshade



Category: Rockman X | Mega Man X, Rockman | Mega Man - All Media Types
Genre: 4+1, Angst, Gen, X not getting nice things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29278860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BryonNightshade/pseuds/BryonNightshade
Summary: X can never keep an Assistant Squad Leader for long. Between the nature of hunting, the 17th's mission profile, and Sigma's vindictiveness, no one survives more than a few months. Being X, he takes this personally.Or: four times X's Azzles lied to him, and once one told him the truth.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Ablative

"We have nothing to fear now that Sigma is gone."

X knows the words aren't true, but he can't correct them. The speaker is his new Assistant Squad Leader, Magus. Magus is a converted civilian reploid, one of those that volunteered for the Hunters in the aftermath of Sigma's Rebellion. His face is earnest and sincere.

"It's important we show that Sigma doesn't speak for all of us," Magus goes on, nodding at his own words. X recognizes the signs of someone psyching himself up. "That's how we heal the damage he did."

"You're right about that," X says, but Magus is too young to hear the hollowness X detects in his own voice. They're all so young. "I'm glad to have you here with me. We're going to do just that."

"By putting down the last of the Mavericks," Magus says.

X knows better. He knows better, and he can't say. He was the only person to get the message, and he's shared it with only a handful of people. The original was erased, and the only copy is now in a database behind so many firewalls and security measures X doesn't know if he could find it again. He doesn't need to, though. He remembers perfectly.

He could never forget Sigma's declaration that he's alive, and seeking vengeance for his defeat.

Everyone in the Hunter chain of command agreed that it would be folly to share the message, even if it's true. The last thing the populace needs is more panic. No one needs more reason to regard reploids with suspicion. Besides, X destroyed Sigma, watched his body burn, and brought down his fortress around him. It's always possible the message is a bluff or mind game.

X doesn't really believe it. He wants to, but he can't manage it. He follows orders all the same. The official line is that Sigma is staying dead. That's what Magus believes.

"Without Sigma, they aren't organized," Magus goes on. "That makes everything harder for them. You can't do much without organization, and when an organization is vested in individuals, things fall apart without them."

That, X agrees with. Still… "The earliest Mavericks did serious damage even without a Maverick Prime guiding their actions," he says. "We've got lots of hard, dangerous work upcoming."

"I know," Magus says solemnly. "I wouldn't have signed up if I thought there was nothing to do."

"We don't have much of an organization, either," X says, confiding in his subordinate. Magus was assigned to him, converted though he was, green though he was, unskilled and unknowing though he was, because there was _no one else_. It's only fair to let him know it. "The Maverick Hunters were virtually destroyed in the war. There's not much to build from. Just a few members of Zeroth Squad, individual survivors from a few others…"

"…and you," Magus says. For a moment, his eyes are unguarded, and X can see the faith. The trust. The belief. X knows he's the biggest recruiting tool the Maverick Hunters have.

He feels like the Pied Piper, luring innocents to their doom.

He knows why the Hunters are using him this way. He can't—won't—stop it. The Hunters are desperately needed. To do their job, they need bodies. They need every recruit they can get. It would be irresponsible of X to deny the Hunters recruiting material.

But that makes X responsible for the recruits drawn in by his image, and for what happens to them.

He sees, in Magus' optimistic face, that Magus is going to die.

How can he tell him that? What kind of message would that be?

How can he temper Magus' illusion without destroying him?

He doesn't know how. He lets the untruth stand.

Over the next few months, Magus and X take to the field together frequently. They have to—there aren't enough Hunters to do otherwise. The Mavericks observe X and Magus together, and understand what it means.

Three months after Magus joins X, a Maverick attack draws X's squad into battle. X takes point, as usual, while Magus commands the fire support element. While X is engaged, assassin reploids go for Magus specifically, ignoring the other Hunters and the humans that were supposedly their prey.

Magus doesn't understand this in time. It never occurs to him that he would be a target in his own right. Thinking only of his duty to protect, he stands his ground, and is cut down by the last of the assassins. Before X destroys the Maverick, it tells him, "Sigma wants you to know that this is all your fault."

X knows it's true.

* * *

X is a learning machine with limitless potential. He sees pain as a stimulus for change. It's his nature.

Even as he mourns Magus, he considers, and compensates.

* * *

"I can do it myself."

X has more choices for his Azzle this time. There are enough Hunters, and they have enough combat in their logs, that he can do better than choose at random and pray.

X chooses the best fighter he can. He chooses someone who he believes can operate on his own. Someone, moreover, that doesn't need to be by X.

"I believe you can," X says to his new Azzle. Soltado is a Hunter born, custom-made for the purpose. His specs are near the top end of modern robotics—not equivalent to X or (the thought pains him) the dead Zero, but plenty powerful. "We need to learn how to operate separately. There will be plenty of times when we'll each have part of the squad. It'll be nice when we have everyone together, but it won't be the norm."

The words aren't in line with the Hunters' emerging tactical doctrine. X has different priorities. The less the Mavericks see X and Soltado together, the less likely they are to put Soltado on their hit lists.

"Good," Soltado says brusquely. "I was hoping to be able to carve out a name on my own."

X blinks, uncomprehending. "Carve out a name?"

"You single-handedly beat Sigma's Rebellion," Soltado explains. "You're a legend. If I'm in your shadow, how can I ever achieve anything myself? Any victory where you're in the picture is your victory. That's why I wanted my own squad. If I have to be your Azzle, I want us to be apart as much as possible."

"I didn't do this to make a name for myself," X says quietly. "I didn't become a Hunter for fame or reputation."

Soltado brushes this off. "That's what you got."

"If you're a good Hunter, the rest will come," X tries to counsel. "Just do your job. Let that be enough. Fame will follow, like it or not."

Soltado frowns. "I don't need your advice," he says. "I would have had my own squad in a few weeks if you hadn't pulled me over to yours. I know what I'm doing. I can do it myself."

It's what X wants, after a fashion, so he lets it go.

For a while it works. The 17th functions as if it were two separate squads that occasionally end up in the same area. This causes problems. Tactically, the squad has a split personality. It creates no end of confusion for the individual Hunters, who have to swap tactics and techniques back and forth depending upon who's leading them that day. An Azzle's responsibilities include training and tactical development; the dissonance between Soltado and X looms especially large in that arena.

Still, it keeps Soltado off the Mavericks' lists, so that's a kind of a victory.

Until an eruption of Mavericks happens—what the Hunters don't realize at the time is the start of the Second War. X and his half-squad, busy neutralizing a Maverick factory, are too far away and too disconnected from Soltado's half when the uprising begins in earnest. Soltado, determined to prove himself, leads his Hunters into the breach, despite repeated orders from X to disengage and retreat. He doesn't survive.

X wonders, after the war, if Soltado even wanted to. A blaze of glory would be one way to make his name… But if that was his goal, then Soltado misjudged what he was getting into. The fight was bigger than that. It was a full-fledged war, the Second under the new naming scheme, and X winds up as its hero, again. Soltado is barely a footnote, remembered only by the survivors of the 17th—mostly X himself.

* * *

X is a learning machine with limitless potential. He sees pain as a stimulus for change. It's his nature.

Even as he mourns Soltado, he considers, and compensates.

* * *

"I'll learn how to survive from you."

"I hope so," X says.

The answer is keen. "You hope that I'll learn, or hope that I'll survive?"

X smiles. This is what he was hoping for. Not the wordplay, which admittedly is fun, but the attitude. "Both, for preference," X says. "I think I have things to teach you to help you survive. I can't teach you everything, though, so you'll have to learn some on your own."

"We're reploids. That's what we do."

X allows himself to hope as he looks over his new Azzle. Airek is a light industrial model who volunteered for Hunter conversion—which turned out to be a short trip. He's intensely curious. He soaked up Hunter doctrine and techniques like a sponge, shed his 'rookie' label almost immediately, and completed the training to qualify for Azzle months ahead of schedule. It's the sort of relentless improvement everyone wants to see in a subordinate. It's the sort of relentless improvement X _needs_ in his subordinate.

Attrition in the Hunters is high. They all know this. X is growing concerned about attrition in his ranks. The Seventeenth is an elite squad, but that means they get the hardest missions. As good as X is, he can't be everywhere. His squad keeps getting shot out from under him. It tears him up.

Maybe he can start to change things. Maybe Airek can help.

"I'm trying to shift the Seventeenth's doctrine," X explains. "I want us to shift towards heavier weapons and more deliberate tactics."

"Heavier weapons means more risk of collateral damage," Airek points out.

"That's true, but no one makes it to the Seventeenth right out of the trainers. They get promoted here. We can pick and choose. If we bias ourselves towards Hunters with high accuracy and judgement, we can counter that risk. We can confine the big guns to the best hands."

"Of course," says Airek, abashed. "I should have known."

"No, I'm glad you said that," says X, beaming. "That's a good question. We need to know why we do the things we do."

It's the sort of phrase Airek can't help but eat up. "I do have a lot of questions," he says.

X smiles. "And I'll do my best to give you answers. I want us to both know how to do things. It'll let us know what the other is doing, whether we're together or not. And I'll be personally instructing you in combat."

Airek's face could light up a room. "Really?"

"Of course," says X. "I train you, you train the squad. Not everything I teach you will apply to the squad, but some will, and having to teach them will mean more practice for you."

"Learning by doing," Airek says appreciatively.

X nodded. "When out of harm's way, for preference. We learn in combat, of course—" none more than X himself—"but the higher our baseline, the more that experience helps us."

"And that means you survive more, which lets you learn more," Airek said, nodding. "That's why there's such a big gap between pros like you and Captain Zero and rookies."

It's a bad comparison, and X knows it. Airek isn't wrong, exactly, but X and Zero have so many other advantages—they're specced so high—that experience is almost the cherry on top, not the basic reason for their success. X's first taste of combat was stopping the First War, after all.

In X's mind, the better comparison would be to someone like Rekir, Zero's Azzle, a factory-basic Hunter model with years of experience and the devil's own luck. That's the sort of role model Airek should be adopting. It's the sort of subordinate X craves.

He briefly envies Zero; envies having an Azzle who knows his business, leads a squad, and _doesn't die_. The feeling passes. Zero deserves nice things. As much trouble as Zero has had with non-combat tasks, he needs the help more than X does. Besides, it's not as if Zero is being selfish and hoarding the good Azzles. Rekir is an anomaly: a fully qualified squad leader in his own right, who voluntarily stepped back into Zero's shadow when Zero returned from the dead.

X sees that kind of potential in Airek. If he can keep this one alive long enough, he really will start to benefit from veterancy and skill growth.

"Let's see if we can narrow that gap," X says.

Airek smiles eagerly. "Let's get started."

It works better than X had dared hope. The Seventeenth completes its conversion to a heavy weapons squad. Airek helps implement the changes, tossing in some clever ideas of his own, to X's surprise and delight. It means that not all of X's lessons for Airek are transferable; X is supremely mobile despite his overwhelming firepower, a combination none of his squadmates can match. Airek keeps his own weapons loadout light, mimicking X's mobility and command. It works well: when the squad deploys, he's able to move amongst the squad and support who needs it.

X is proud of him, proud of his development. He feels more and more comfortable delegating leadership tasks to Airek while he takes the brunt of the fighting. It makes sense tactically and personally, too. He can survive what others can't. The less he and Airek are seen together, the less of a target Airek is for the Mavericks.

That ends up not mattering. Collapsing buildings are indiscriminate. Airek should be able to survive such things; if he does the easy, obvious maneuver, he does survive. Instead, as the building comes down, he tries to imitate X. He sees a way to avoid the worst of the collapse and stay engaged with the enemy. With a mixture of confidence and ambition, he pulls a maneuver he's seen X perform.

He isn't X. He can't quite manage the air-dash-towards-a-wall-then-twist-around-and-kick-off-to-ascend that X has learned through endless trial and error. When he tries to plant his feet against the wall, they slip. He falls. Unable to brace or protect himself, he hits hard, and is buried.

The Mavericks show no concern that he might be there, and the battle rages over where he has fallen. His body is found afterwards.

* * *

X is a learning machine with limitless potential. He sees pain as a stimulus for change. It's his nature.

Even as he mourns Airek, he considers, and compensates.

* * *

"I may die, but I'll take as many Mavericks with me as I can."

X manages to restrain a wince. Stoicism has become ever-more-important for him over the years, and he is nothing if not self-possessed. "You're certain," he says, as much question as observation.

"How couldn't I be?" says Camaron. He raps his hands against his chest. "I was built as a Hunter, and don't know anything other than that life."

"You could learn," X says.

"I suppose, but it's much more likely I'll die first," Camaron replies. "How many Hunters have served their time and left?"

"Eighteen," X replies. Twelve earned medical retirements after being shot up and patched together and shot up again until they couldn't be repaired to combat-worthy status anymore. Six miraculously survived two years of active duty and elected to leave. Every other line Hunter has either died in action before two years, or reached the two year mark and renewed their service and _then_ died in action.

In a way, X is glad Magus didn't live this long. He would've been so dismayed, so heartbroken, that the war was still going.

"Not great odds," Camaron plows on, ignorant of X's internal monologue. "But that's okay."

"Is it?" says X in confusion.

"It's still worth it," Camaron insists. "How many Mavericks are there, compared to how many Hunters there are? As long as I can beat that ratio, my life was well-spent."

Revulsion fills X. He outright rejects this sort of diminishment, this reduction of people's lives. Races are not monoliths, and people are not ratios.

Is that right, though? X has been face-to-face with _so many_ Hunters and Mavericks and civilians. The first set, those he fought with and against in the First War, stick in his mind so much. It gets harder each time. He remembers, to be sure, but less sharply, less cleanly. He remembers Boomer Kuwanger in vivid detail. His first recollection of Magna Centipede is, "Like Boomer Kuwanger, but…"

He sees the first signs in himself. He hopes it doesn't progress. He doesn't know how to stop it.

It's happening now. X looks at Camaron and sees motivations similar to Magus', a purpose-built frame like Soltado, an open mind like Airek. He wonders if he chose Camaron on the strength of his record, or if he represented a composite of what X has already seen.

And all of those background thoughts occur in parallel with his keeping up a conversation with his new Azzle, because X has experience under his belt now, and multi-tasks as a matter of course, and it no longer takes nearly as much of his attention to keep up appearances.

"It's easy to get too reckless, you know," said X. "Some amount of selfish survival is necessary. If all the Hunters sacrificed themselves, there wouldn't be any of us left, would there? And then who would protect the world?"

Camaron blinks. "I didn't think about that. I'm not trying to sacrifice myself, though. I'm just… you know, coming to terms with this job."

X nods. "Peace of mind is important. It gives clarity. It makes decisions easier, in the moment."

Camaron smiles. "I hope so."

X is drawn, irresistibly, to the Zero comparison. Zero had clarity. Zero sacrificed himself, in a way X would never have asked him to do. The comparison breaks down because Zero came back. X knows Camaron can't, not as Zero did.

"As long as we understand that," X manages, "then we'll do all we can to make your life count."

"Thank you," Camaron says, smiling naively.

X fails.

On his second mission, Camaron's transport is shot down in an ambush. He dies in the crash, never having gotten the chance to come to grips with the Mavericks. X is sortied to salvage the mission, and partially succeeds. Afterwards, he looks at the wreckage, and verifies that he would have survived the crash if it had been him. It wasn't him, though. It was Camaron, who died for nothing, because that happens in war.

Somewhere, a Hunter analyst notes the marginal lowering of the Hunter-to-Maverick kill ratio.

* * *

X is a learning machine with limitless potential. He sees pain as a stimulus for change. It's his nature.

Even as he mourns Camaron, he considers, and compensates.

* * *

"This isn't what I wanted."

There have been four official Maverick Wars, now, dozens of battles, and numberless skirmishes and ambushes. X has outlived every Maverick Hunter twice over. He's had seven Azzles, three of which barely stick in his memory. He can't feel envious of Zero anymore, since old reliable Rekir is dead as well. Even so, no Squad has had more Azzles than the Seventeenth, and it's not close.

Even those Squads that have had several Azzles have at least had their Squad Leaders go down at some point, too. But X is still there, leading the Seventeenth, as invincible as ever—more, even, as his arsenal grows and his edge is honed—while everyone around him is laid waste.

"It's not?" X asks.

"Of course not," huffs Grumman. "I didn't ask for this. I don't know how I got on your list of candidates."

X understands this objection. When his last Azzle went down and the call for replacements went out, there were zero volunteers. It's been like this for a while now. "They give me my pick," X says quietly. "Every Hunter is available to me to be made Azzle of the Seventeenth."

"To become your extra life, you mean," Grumman grumbles.

The corner of X's mouth curls the tiniest amount. "Is that what they're saying now?"

"What, that you survive so long because your Azzles die? Yeah, some say that." Grumman crosses his arms defiantly. He's larger than X, who's always been amongst the smallest Hunters, and looms over his progenitor—and yet the crossing of arms seems defensive to X's well-fed modeling protocols.

"What do you say?" X prompts.

"I say I'm gonna die," Grumman says. "I'm gonna die, and soon, because that's what happens to all your Azzles. I'm never going to get a Squad of my own, where at least I could die on my terms and as my own boss. I'm gonna die as a footnote in your story."

"Probably," X allows.

"This isn't what I wanted," Grumman repeats. "I hate this. Why would you do this to me?"

"It has to be someone," X says.

"Why couldn't 'someone' be someone else?" Grumman demands. "I hate this, and I hate you."

Now X's mouth curves for real. "That makes two of us."

Grumman stalls, caught off-guard. "Huh?"

"Just… this isn't what I wanted, either," X says, and though he doesn't explain to Grumman he thinks to himself the truth. He didn't want to be the last one standing time and again. He didn't want to be unable to do anything but fight and fight, to win battles but never the war, to stand against waves of Maverickism while never stopping the ocean. He didn't want to see everyone around him killed, over and over, until he can barely keep them straight in his head and their faces all blur together. He didn't want to have a body count so high it's frankly stopped being meaningful.

He remembers it all, yet none of it distinctly, and he didn't want that, either.

"I'm sorry for picking you," he says. "You're right to hate me for it."

Grumman seems to consider that. X can almost see him pondering if this is a trick or trap. Finally, he gives in to instinct. "Good, because I do," he huffs.

"But can I still expect you to do your job?" X prods. "Will you still be able to fight Mavericks, lead your squad, and protect our world even if you despise me?"

"Yes," Grumman snarls, rich with resentment.

X's pain infects his smile. "Then you're perfect. Let's get to work."


End file.
